Our two windows stand on either side of a narrow slit of pavement six stories lower. I used to wonder why the architects would do something so intrusive as to line up bedroom windows like this, but then, the flat brick alternative would have been far too depressing. So now we peer into each other, often without intending. Semi-self conscious subjects and semi-conscious viewers – we are in each other’s fishbowl. But I see your light’s turned out. Our embarrassed observations will continue in the morning.

It’s strange that neither of us has bothered to put up curtains. That would have been the obvious solution. Instead I’ve gone to great lengths to position the bed out of sight, mostly. I’ve taken to changing my clothes in the bathroom, mostly. And I’m aware that you are genuinely uninhibited on both accounts. Might want to have that mole looked at though, I think it’s gotten bigger.

That woman you had over last night, do you think it’s serious? I think she’s serious about you. It was written so plainly on her face I could see it even at this distance. And I even like the buck teeth – gives her a darling bunny quality. Much better than the woman before. I knew that makeup encrusted old tart was no good from the very beginning. And where did she leave you? In a puddle of tears and tissues, drenched in three bottles of cheap whisky. Not that I was counting.

While we’re on the subject, what do you think of the beau? I’ve been debating on whether or not to keep things going. And I saw the look you gave him as you toasted your cups of coffee through the windows the other day – you’re apprehensive too. I promise he doesn’t always yell like that. Didn’t used too. But a lot of things are on the rocks right now, so I can’t exactly blame him. Can I? If we actually spoke, I’d be keen for your advice. The advice of an older man, like a distant uncle I’ve adopted. But no, that would cross a line we’ve been so careful to maintain.

How long have you lived in the building opposite my own? How many other tenants have come and gone from these windows? And did you have the same friendly non-relationship with them? Oh, listen to me babble against the darkness of your unlit window. I almost sound jealous. Curious. You are a source endless curiosity my dear neighbor, my imagined non-imaginary friend. We see each other swimming circles around our cheaply rented rooms, interpolating entire lives from the briefest bits of moments…

I maintain that I am not a good man. No, that’s not quite true. Good perhaps, but certainly not the best. I have my doubts about myself. About life. About the future and it’s meaning for me. But so does everyone, I suppose. Especially here.

No, I don’t think they envisioned this sort of existential crisis when they first started building the Hope. What a pretentious goddamn name. I wonder what little prick in the marketing division came up with that gem. Hope. A better name would have been Ambition. That’s what this is, after all. A great ambition in the form of a behemoth vessel with colonial intent, hurling itself toward a distant star. And here we are, somewhere in the middle, just waiting to arrive.

Or waiting to die. It’s true. Our destination, a lonely rock in Sector 419, is exactly three human lifespans from Earth. Three generations. The first takes off, the third lands, and we? We only wait.

And so men like me, the mostly good on our mostly good days, we have a drink. There is a particular bar for men like me. An unassuming room at end of a corridor on the third deck of the fourth zone. It is a nothing spot, but it is everything. Absolutely everything to men like me.

And sure. Sure, there are other bars of higher standing, finer drinks, and better crowds. There are other bars to be seen in and noticed. But that’s not why we come here, to the minor tap far out of the way. We come here for the bartender. We come here for Miranda.

“Hi’ya toots,” I say, taking my usual seat.

“Who let you in here?” Miranda teases. But only by half.

She is not a beautiful woman. Her shoulders are too rounded and too hunched. She has the same sad-puppy face of Eleanor Roosevelt. But she is the most beautiful woman. Though no one can ever quite figure out why.

“Miranda, darling, run away with me.”

“Yeah? And go where?” she says with a huff, pouring my drink without needing to ask.

“I hear there are some lovely little condos down in the fifth zone. Deck four. Very discreet.”

“More than that. We’re on a mission we didn’t start and won’t live long enough finish. No choice and no glory….and of course the kiddos will do great things, but what are we doing? We, the interim?” I say, slipping into lower feelings, “A whole generation marooned by the decisions of its forebears.”

Chairs shuffle down the bar. The clink of glasses. A dozen conversations rimmed with laughter. And I sit staring into the deep-end of my glass.

“Joseph, look at me,” she says. I look at her.

“Has there ever been a time when that wasn’t the case?”

I think through my warm and troubled fog. Reluctantly, I answer.

“I suppose not.”

“Mmm. So quit your whining.”

I can’t help but laugh. Miranda the mother-Valkyrie, always ready to provide a swift kick in the ass.

“You want to know what the interim generation is doing?” she says, “Surviving. Living. Doing everything it can so that future you envy so badly can exist.”

When I was a kid, my mother would take me to visit her sister in the city. She lived in this fabulous building in the heart of downtown. Its curves of blue-black glass made it look like the vase I wasn’t allowed to touch. Inside, everything was just as shiny. The lobby was puzzle of different colored marble, all buffed to that high touch-me-not gloss. And mailboxes. I was fascinated with them. They were tiny brass strongholds – full of the risqué love letters Aunt Marie described to my mother when they thought I couldn’t hear. I adored my Aunt Marie.

I like to imagine that she had had a love affair with Clark Gable, even though the time-line for that is all wrong. Still, it seems like the kind of thing that would have suited her. Aunt Marie was considerably older than my mother, but more alive than anyone else I had ever met. Beautiful, eccentric, and at times, completely mad. She taught me how to spit the shells of sunflower seeds off the edge of her balcony – showing me the secret of velocity and congratulating me when I hit someone. Which I never did intentionally, of course.

Then, in the afternoons, there was coffee. I always looked forward to coffee because, while I wasn’t permitted any, that’s when the stories would start. Aunt Marie would tell my mother all about the charming people she knew and the not-in-front-of-children letters she received. My mother would pretend to be shocked, but I think she was a little jealous. I know I was, and I was too young to understand most of it at the time. But it didn’t matter. At ten years old, I decided that that was the life I wanted. A life full of wild stories and romance by post. And I absolutely had to live in a building with brass mailboxes.

Greetings from snowy Mt. Horeb! I’m just writing to wish you a happy birthday and to say that I hope all is well with you, Dave, and the children. It’s been such an awfully long time since I’ve written.

I wonder, how is the weather out there in Hawaii? I do hope you’ve remembered to use sunscreen. But of course you have. You’ve lived there twelve years now. I guess the watchful habits of an elder sister are slow to die. Hard to believe you’re sixty.

I’ve been meaning to thank you for the gift you sent, Christmas 2006. It’s such a lovely little instrument, fills me with guilt I haven’t a clue how to play it. But then again, God knows where I’d find lessons for the uke – ukalele – uckulayle – well, it doesn’t matter how to spell it, because we both know I’ll never send this letter anyway.

Did Dave really have pneumonia last fall? I’m not accusing you of anything. I suppose I don’t care one way or the other anymore. You’ve always gone your own way, the rest of us be damned. Still, it was strange to bury Mom without you.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking back to those days, when everything fell apart. It all seems like a dream now – little wisps of memory here and there, still images, and soundbites. I’ll never forgive myself for what I called you. No one deserves that kind of language, least of all from family.

But I was so very angry – you have to understand. You had me so riled up and twisted round. I wouldn’t have minded about the money, I could have gotten over that in time. It was the secrets, Margaret. The two of you, scheming behind my back. He left right after you did, did you know that? I only ever saw his lawyer after. And no idea where he’s gone to. It’s cruel to think, but maybe it was for the best that we couldn’t have children.

What am I blathering on about? Events long gone in a letter soon deleted. But then again, I tend to be the weepy one on birthdays. Now.

Well, happy birthday Margaret. I’ll send the thought at least. I hope Dave and the kids are doing well. The boys must be full grown men by now. Of course they are. That’s the way time works.

Maybe someday, I’ll actually send a letter. Someday when I’ve gathered up the gall. Or downed enough gin. Or maybe – maybe when I’ve finally taken lessons, and I can tell you just how much I love to play the ukah – uku – youkoo – ukulele.

He had ink on his hands. I remember the way it crept through the grooves of his skin. The roots of weeds. It was just small spots, but unmistakable. And a loose-wrinkled shirt. Yellow or faded or not. It was a long time ago.

The kettle screams on the stove. Tea leaves swirl in the chipped-china pot. An afternoon at home. Jenny asks if she can go play in the garden. Barely twelve. A tomboy. No interest in boys but that’ll come soon enough. Go and play. Ma won’t mind, Granny says it’s ok.

Just like her mother, Jenny. All sports and bare knees. Jarred frogs and adventures. Comes from somewhere, I guess, but not me. I was never. But maybe that would have been better.

He would ask me where things were. In my first real job as a library clerk I was full of poorly trained self-importance. Had I been a little wiser, I would have realized he wasn’t actually trying to find anything. He just enjoyed watching me bumble about, earnestly chasing wild geese. A game of obscure titles and fictional subjects. Or flirting.

Jeremy the cat jumps up on the table. Strutting about, poking his head into cups. He adopted himself into the family three years ago. As if we had any say in the matter. I just wish he wasn’t naked. Perhaps I’ll knit him a sweater. Perhaps I’ll learn to knit. For now I’ll just pet his bald little head. An elderly man-cat. Two old farts and tea.

He plucked a gray hair from my head once. I was nineteen. Came right up and pulled the strand straight out of my head. I must have blushed pools of blood. Wide eyed and incapable of saying anything. He just laughed and walked away. So damn clever. Sent me into a panic. I spent the evening glued to the mirror, looking for the first shoots of an old hag. Silly girl.

I let the tea sit too long, it’s gone all bitter. Never mind, milk and sugar. Jenny giggles in the yard. To be so young. And always in a hurry to grow up. Like her mother. Like me. Not my favorite legacy.

Coming from a town too small for maps, a graduate student seemed like a wildly exotic creature. Irrevocably tied to visions of bohemian genius. And my impressions were knowingly reinforced. He was wit and mischief hung on bones. I did everything I could to make myself appealing. I did everything I could to hide.

I didn’t learn his name until months after we met. Certainly not bold enough to ask, not in those days. I thought he must have an adventuring, romantic name. He didn’t. And he called me all sorts of things. Sweet things. Sugary nicknames and French things I couldn’t understand. I don’t think he ever called me by name. I don’t think he remembered. I don’t think I cared.

Jeremy sprawls out on the table, I rub his belly. Our innumerable wrinkles. He sounds like a motorbike. That went to a party. In someone else’s flat.

A nice cashmere sweater is not always suitable for a party. A calcified square caught in music made for shaking. He introduced me to his friends. Blue haze and bottles. Words I had only read, and mentally mispronounced. I just sipped my drink and smiled. Prayed to God no one would ask me a question. Thrilled just to be there. On the way home he –

Jenny calls from the garden. Touch the phone, talisman. No emergency, just a bird’s nest. That’s wonderful dear. Put it back.

Those days fall together. Fused. Stretched and condensed through time. I was blissfully thoughtless, a fanatic for attentions. And he paid them. Sometimes miserly, sometimes generous. I told all my girlfriends. What a wonderful hero-saint-genius I had. Hours spent listening to drivelsome coffee-jabber and tracing the weeds of ink.

The stains came from a pen. A hand-me-down from someone I pretended to have heard of. A beautiful fountain antique prone to leaking. He was going to change the world and write something brilliant. So I believed and believed. Through reams of paper. Sheets and sheets. And sheets.

My cup has gone cold. The phone rings and jitters. Here in half an hour to pick up Jenny. Lovely. Press twelve different buttons to hang up. My kingdom for a landline.

Three weeks of silence. Months too close, then three weeks. Young eternity. I drove my body to ache, willing the phone to ring. And nothing. And nothing. I call, and nothing. Sleepless, eatless, and bent. Rotten. Dead. Then all the sudden. Come again like nothing happened. I should have been furious, but was elated instead. Joyous mistakes.

When I told him we had a secret, he didn’t react. Just carried on. I repeated myself, thinking he hadn’t heard. He assured me he had. I started in on questions, but got nowhere. A row ignited, storms have less thunder. Terrible, brash things inflated with irrelevancies. Stomps. Strikes to walls and tables.

And the whole thing broke.

A crash. Jenny apologizes, almost sobbing. It’s alright dear, I never really cared for that anyway. She cut her hand, slight as an eyelash. Band-Aids and kisses. Dry your eyes. Granny can fix it. Ma will be here soon.

I gave her. For better chances. Three counties over, I met them once. Good people. I was wretched a long time after.

The door opens. Jeremy scoots to quieter places, Jenny wriggles away. Ma’s here! Looks just like her father. The gawky waiter in a lousy Italian restaurant when we were first introduced. My saving grace. I should bring him flowers tomorrow. Not really a man for flowers. But it’s not like he’ll see them through all that dirt.

Ma greets her girl, me. Jenny clings her waist. On my hand? Nothing. Just ink. I was writing a letter earlier. It creeps through the grooves. The roots of weeds.

Ok, so maybe ‘love’ is a strong word. Especially when it comes to my view of young adult literature (YA). But I’ve made considerable improvement since the pang of betrayal I felt when my local bookstore christened not one, but two shelves with the label “teen paranormal romance.” I hope I didn’t snort my dismissal too loudly because I’ve recently reached a sense of acceptance. A distinct lack of worry. An end of bitterness. It dawned on me that the popularity of YA is not the end of the world.

I know, I was surprised too.

For me, the first hurdle was a matter of content. When I think of YA, I typically think of fluff. Supernatural dystopian teen-angst laced with a hefty dose of schmaltz. Given the recent glut of moody vampire love, my typical gut reaction had been one of ‘ew’. But perhaps that was a little harsh.

First, let’s consider the audience. Young adult literature is intended for young adults. Teenagers. Maybe early twenties, why not? Is there anything actually wrong with writing novels geared toward their age group? Of course not. It can help fill that awkward gap between The Berenstain Bears and Brothers Karamazov. So that’s fine.

Next, let’s look at the style. YA has a tendency to be…well, not all that intellectually challenging. Then again, neither are large swaths of pop fiction, science fiction, fantasy, and romance. But they are entertaining. And while I enjoy wading into the deep end of existentialism as much as the guy, I’ll be the first to admit that even the most refined connoisseur of serious literature needs to pick up something lighter once in a while. So, is there anything wrong with writing entertaining stories suited to a teenage palette? No.

Besides, YA has never claimed to be literary fiction. Not that I know of, anyway. And for those of us who might have hoped otherwise, there’s always the possibility of a gateway-drug effect. You know the argument: it’s a slippery slope from Twilight to Interview with a Vampire to classics like (gasp!) Dracula… And from there its only a matter of time before they’re approached by shadowy figures like us, hawking hard-core Tolstoy from beneath our proverbial trench-coats, whilst our neck-tattoos proclaim “Prince Andre is my homeboy.” Do you really want that to happen to our youth?!

I sure as hell hope you do.

And yet, this notion soothes only about half of my reservations. That’s because, as everyone knows, teenagers aren’t the only ones reading YA. So what about the young-adult devotees who are no longer, shall we say, ‘young’? What about the soccer-mom obsessed with The Hunger Games? The thirty-four year old man who touts Harry Potter as the pinnacle of his literary experience? Not long ago I would have twisted my nose in the air and scoffed my disapproval. But no longer.

And it’s because of those two bookshelves.

While I might not have much use for teen paranormal romance, it does have an undeniable following. As does YA in general. But this isn’t a collapse of the reading world – it’s an expansion.

I have seen the passion with which YA readers devour books. I have seen the excitement and the fandom. And in short, I was unafraid. Reading for pleasure is becoming more inclusive. Anything that can inspire an interest in reading for those who would have otherwise abandoned the library, is something I can get behind. Just look at the long lines of people at the premiere of a popular YA sequel. Could such devotion to the art of the written word really be bad?

I don’t think so.

So there it is. Goodbye pretension, hello readers. The popularity of YA is not pushing the hands of the doomsday clock ever closer to midnight. Not by a long shot. For many, YA is the way into books – the spark – and I for one intend to fan the flames…cheering as it explodes.

Hello, welcome! Have you heard about our new promotion? Up to fifty percent off select items from this table. That one? Let me check… this one’s just twenty-five. Well, its “up to,” so some are… Yeah, the sign is a little misleading. No, they come from corporate, so I don’t have any control over– Ok. Right. I’m sorry.

Hello, welcome! Have you – Ok, well, let us know if you have… any questions… ok, thanks for coming in!

Hello, have you been helped? Oh, um, I don’t know – but let me check. (Do we even sell that?) Just a moment. No, I’m sorry we don’t carry… Have you tried… Well, I don’t work there, so I’m not sure if they do. I’m sorry.

Hello, have you been – oh, one of those? Let me check our system. Sorry, our system’s slow. Well, the computers haven’t been updated since ‘95, so… yeah, it’s still loading. I know, I’m sorry, I’m going as fast as I can. Well, it’s almost – ok, but – ok, sorry about that, but thanks for coming in! …And there it is.

Hello, welcome! A return? Sure. What do you have there? Really, you bought it ten years ago? Ok, well, we don’t sell that model any more. Mm-hmm. Yeah, and our return policy doesn’t extend to… Manufacturer error, really? Uh-huh. No, I understand, but I don’t think we’ll be able to give you a full refund. Yes, I’d be happy to get my manager for you.

Excuse me, ma’am? Are these your children? Ok, well they were running around in the… Yes, but if you could just… What? No, that doesn’t come in orange. I don’t need to check the back room because they don’t make any in orange. Ma’am, I really need you to keep your children from running… No, I’m sorry ma’am, we do not provide childcare services in store. No, it doesn’t come in fuchsia either.

Hello! Have you been helped? Oops! I’m sorry – I’ve already asked you twice. Been here half an hour, really? Well, time certainly does fly… Me? I’ll be here for the next five hours. Five. Yep.